


If someone watches over me

by umbrafix



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Fisher starts receiving letters from a stalker; can she and Jack solve this mystery before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If someone watches over me

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this set sometime in the first half of season 2

The first Jack knows of the matter is when Collins marches through his door after lunch, towing a somewhat unwilling Miss Williams along behind him. Up until that point, he's been having a fairly sedate day, but he senses the chances of that continuing going downhill fast.

 

“Collins?” Jack asks. It's not like his constable to intrude without knocking. Something must have upset him.

 

“Hugh, I really don't think-” Miss Williams hisses, and then proceeds to look everywhere in the room except at Jack.

 

“Inspector!” His constable comes to a halt in front of his desk, practically vibrating with urgency. “There's something Miss Williams needs to tell you.” He turns to Miss Williams and widens his eyes at her. “Immediately!”

 

“Well, I...” Miss Williams looks nervously between the two of them. “It's just that Miss Fisher asked me not to say.” She bites her lip, and grips her handbag tightly, obviously worried about something. Jack leans back in his chair. The handkerchief she has in one hand suggests she may have been crying before they came in. It seems to Jack as though she does want to tell him whatever it is, though he can understand her reluctance to break her employer's trust.

 

“What is this about?” Jack asks. If Miss Fisher's involved, it's bound to be trouble of one sort or another. He idly wonders how many dead bodies are involved this time. She does have an uncanny knack for finding them.

 

When Miss Williams doesn't seem inclined to speak further, Collins huffs in frustration. “Apparently Miss Fisher's been receiving threatening letters, sir,” he says. Miss Williams tugs her arm free from Collins' hold and glares at him.

 

“What?” Jack straightens in his chair, everything else forgotten. “For how long? Who are they from?”

 

Jack can think of a great deal of people who might want to threaten Miss Fisher, and the thought of any of them sending her letters is not comforting. His first thought is Murdoch Foyle, who is still in jail awaiting execution, and the idea of that man contacting her in any way sends a chill down Jack's spine. Then there are all the people she's helped to put in jail, their families, and everyone she's exposed as adulterers or petty crooks along the way. It's a long list.

 

Miss Williams seems shaken by the urgency of his tone. “For a few days now,” she says, looking at the floor. “One a day. We don't know who's sending them. They say-” She gives a little sob, and puts her hand to her mouth.

 

“There, there, Dottie.” Collins puts an arm around her shoulder. She takes a deep breath, and composes herself.

 

“Miss Fisher is pretending it's all a great joke, but I think she's scared. I overheard her on the telephone, calling Jane's school and telling her not to come home for the holidays yet.” Because of course she would make light of it to her staff. Jack can picture the look on Miss Fisher's face as she waved off their concern and laughed at the whole affair. He's rather surprised she told them at all, in fact. The point about Jane is rather telling, though. Maybe she is also worried about the rest of the household, and wants them on their guard.

 

“I see.” Jack's first, instinctive reaction is to place a call and station every available police officer around Miss Fisher's house for the foreseeable future. This is impractical for obvious reasons, nor would Miss Fisher stand for it.

 

“She'll be so angry with me when she finds out I've told you.” Miss Williams sounds very distressed. Collins reaches out and takes her hand, and she squeezes it.

 

“You don't need to worry about that, Miss Williams.” Jack stands, and grabs his coat. “You did exactly the right thing by telling me. Miss Fisher doesn't always have to handle everything all by herself.” And this was one thing she really shouldn't have been trying to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Miss Fisher opens the door under his hand as he's knocking a second time, and he watches her face closely. He can see the exact moment she realises why he's here. She was deliberately hiding it from him, then, as he had inferred from Miss Williams. The thought leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

 

“Jack,” she says suspiciously. It's not the usual cheerful greeting he gets. In fact, under almost any circumstances, whether at a murder or a cocktail party, she normally sounds positively delighted to see him. Today is apparently not such an occasion.

 

“Miss Fisher.” He quirks an eyebrow at her as she continues to stand barring the door. She's wearing white trousers and a floaty pale pink top which leaves her arms mostly bare. Jack tells himself to stop noticing her outfits. And her arms.

 

“What brings you to my neighbourhood?” she asks. As though he's just stopped by on a random visit. He's not sure whether to be annoyed at her for continuing the charade, or vaguely amused at the effort.

 

“May I come in, Miss Fisher?” She steps back, but not very far, and he brushes past her as he enters the house. She closes the door behind him, and they stand in tense silence for a moment. Jack is reminded of a pair of predators circling each other, neither willing to look away first.

 

“I wasn't expecting you, Jack,” she says, finally. She crosses her arms in front of her, and sticks her chin out defiantly. “Don't tell me you need my help on a case?”

 

“I suspect you know exactly why I'm here,” Jack says, and takes a step towards her, “and you can indeed help me with it. I've heard that you've been sent some suspicious letters.”

 

“Really?” she says sardonically. She ups his gambit and steps even closer to him, so that they are almost touching. He swallows, looking down into her eyes. “Now who would have told you that?” Her tone of voice, however inquiring, makes it very clear that she knows who gave up the information. And she's certainly not happy that he knows.

 

“I cannot share my sources at this time, Miss Fisher.” He keeps his face expressionless, and sees a sudden glint in her eyes.

 

“Hmm,” she says. Very slowly she reaches up, and for a moment he thinks she will touch his face. Jack keeps his gaze impassive even as desire, ever present in Miss Fishers company, sparks in his veins. He feels the whisper of air moving against his skin as her fingers move past, but they don't quite make contact. Instead, her hand continues higher and she grasps his hat, lifting it off. The tension of the moment breaks as she looks aside. “Perhaps you'd like to come into the drawing room, then? And – oh, perfect timing, Mr B.” She turns to the butler who has just appeared, and hands him the hat. “I think we may need some refreshments.”

 

“Very good, miss. May I take your coat, Inspector?”

 

They go through to the drawing room, and Miss Fisher seems unusually restless. A minute after sitting down, she gets up again, looks out of the window, and then chooses a different seat. Her hands are never still. For someone usually so collected, so sure of her every move, it's disquieting behaviour. Again he is reminded of Murdoch Foyle; this time of her reaction to him. Or of how she was in the restaurant, waiting for René Dubois. Does she know who is sending the letters after all? Are they from Foyle? Certainly she is unsettled enough.

 

“You mustn't blame Miss Williams,” Jack begins, “I happened to overhear her talking to Constable Collins.” He is glad that she told him what the problem was, but does not wish for her to be in trouble with Miss Fisher. Though, he cannot imagine Miss Fisher being as angry over this as Miss Williams seemed to think she would be. She might value discretion, but had a great affection for her companion and valued common sense, which Miss Williams had displayed in abundance by reporting this.

 

“No, no, of course not,” Miss Fisher says, shaking her head ruefully. “It was silly of me to ask her not to mention it; it's just that I knew everyone would make such a fuss over it.” And with good reason, Jack thinks. She leans forward in her chair and looks at him earnestly. “I really don't think there's any danger, Jack.” He bites the inside of his cheek at her lie.

 

“No?” he says. “Then why are you delaying Jane's return from school?” She can't hide her reaction to that, sitting up straight in consternation. He feels like it's the first honest expression he's seen on her face since he walked in.

 

Mr Butler enters with the tea just as she starts to speak, and puts the tray down on the table. Miss Fisher applies herself to pouring for them both, seeming to take a very long time to do everything. She hands him his cup without quite meeting his eyes.

 

“Biscuit?” She proffers the plate.

 

Jack sips his tea, and concedes that Miss Williams makes excellent biscuits. He takes another. Miss Fisher starts to fidget again.

 

“Well, if you must know,” she says, “I thought that until I know who is sending them it might be better if she weren't here. Just to be on the safe side,” she adds quickly. Jack wonders how hard that was for her to admit.

 

“Very sensible. In that case,” Jack says with a smile, “I am here to offer my services to investigate the matter. So that Jane can come home all the sooner.” Miss Fisher opens her mouth to object, and then closes it again. She shrugs, and looks down at the empty teacup she is fiddling with.

 

“Thank you, Jack.” The words are unexpectedly sincere. He wasn't expecting them, not after her attitude since his arrival. It might be just as hard for her to admit to herself that she is affected by this as to anyone else.

 

“No thanks are necessary, Miss Fisher,” he says, and hopes that she can hear the how genuinely he means it. They've been through enough together, the two of them, that she shouldn't doubt he will help her if he can. “May I see the letters?”

 

She hesitates, and not for the first time he wonders what is in them. “Of course,” she says, “I'll just get them.”

 

Jack moves to the window as he waits, taking another two biscuits with him. He twitches the net curtain aside slightly, and tries to determine if any of the people in the lane look suspicious. Depending on the nature of the letters, it's entirely possible that the person writing them may be watching Miss Fisher or the house. If it's Foyle, he could be paying someone on the outside to do so. Jack wonders if that's why she was looking out of the window earlier too.

 

“Here they are,” Miss Fisher says as she re-enters the room. She holds a small packet of letters; there must be four or five.

 

“Why didn't you tell me sooner?” he asks. Since nothing will have come over the weekend, if there's been one each day that means she's been getting them for a week. He reaches out to take them, but Miss Fisher holds them back for a moment, looking at him seriously.

 

“I thought they were some sort of sick joke to start with, or to scare me off a case - except I haven't been working on anything.” She turns the packet of letters over in her hands, contemplating it. “Jack, I haven't let Dot see these. No one but Mr Butler, and he's only seen the first one.” Jack nods. “Jack, I'm afraid you might find them... upsetting.”

 

“I find a lot of things I see upsetting, Miss Fisher,” he says dryly, “I'm a policeman.” She hands over the letters.

 

She's right. He does find them upsetting.

 

The first one is the mildest, and the shortest. It merely says, 'I know you. I'm watching you.' The second calls her a whore. Three through five contain increasingly graphic descriptions of sexual acts the writer thinks she's performed. All of them say that he is watching her.

 

“Jesus, Phryne,” he says when he finishes the last, and doesn't even notice he's blasphemed for a minute. She gives him a sad smile and a shrug.

 

“What can I say, I inspire devotion.”

 

“Don't joke about this,” he says, and throws the letters on the table. “Please, don't joke about this.”

 

For someone to have written these things to her sickens him. It isn't Foyle then; likely isn't anyone that she's put away for murder, though they can't rule it out. No, these letters seem to be from someone disgusted with her, and obsessed with her at the same time.

 

“I don't know what else to do.” And he can understand that; her natural reaction to anything which might scare her is to try and make it small and defeatable, if only by laughing at it.

 

“You need protection, Miss Fisher.” Jack rises to his feet, mind already running ten steps ahead. “I'll-”

 

“No, Jack!” And how can she even be arguing with him about this? How she have read the same letters which he just has, with such violent intent in them, and not think she needs protection? She gets up too, and steps around the table to stand toe to toe with him. “Just because some loon is-”

 

“This is not just some loon, Miss Fisher!” Jack hears his own voice rise, and makes an effort to get it under control. “The things he says! If he's watching you, watching the house, then we need to get you out of here.”

 

“Absolutely not. I'm not leaving. And before you say anything, you aren't putting me under armed guard either.” Miss Fisher looks particularly stubborn, her mouth a hard line.

 

“I should bring in your two red-raggers and have them sit on you!” Jack says with a growl. “How can you take this so lightly?” How can she even pretend to, when his heart is beating a terrified rhythm inside his chest at the thought of this threat?

 

“I'm not taking it lightly, Jack,” she says, and her voice becomes soothing. She relaxes her stance and reaches out a hand and to place it on his arm. Her hand feels warm, even through all the layers. Jack closes his eyes for a moment, frustrated, worried for her – since she won't be worried for herself. “I'm not. I simply think that a police presence might make it significantly harder to trap our culprit.”

 

That is a good point, in fact. The sort of person who would write these letters is unlikely to come out into the open unless he is confident of his mark. If they scare him off before they identify him then they might never find him. He could come back at any time in the future, and catch her unawares. Which is not a thought Jack wants to contemplate. She's obviously been thinking about this, however. She's had several days to do so. And she is Miss Fisher.

 

His next question is, therefore, “Do you have a plan?” She smiles at him slightly, though it doesn't reach her eyes. Her hand moves down his arm to his elbow, and then it is gone. Jack misses the pressure of it; the contact.

 

“I've been watching the road from the upstairs window when the post is delivered. I thought the kind of person who would write these letters is probably obsessive enough to want to see them delivered.” She shrugs.

 

“That's a good idea,” Jack says, slightly grudgingly. Although, if she'd informed him sooner, he could have had a bloody team standing by, and a better chance at catching the bastard if she'd seen him.

 

“Why, thank you, Jack.” She can't quite manage her customary cheekiness, but it's not far off. If Jack didn't know her as well as he did, he probably would have been fooled. “I've only been watching for the last three days, but I've written detailed descriptions of everyone. There hasn't been anyone there on all of the days – there were a couple of people that were there for two of them – though it's also possible that he was hiding somewhere I couldn't see. No one that looked very likely though.”

 

“Perhaps we can lay a trap for him.” Jack pauses to consider. They can't just block off the road and try and catch him that way – since they don't know whom they are looking for it would be too easy for him to slip away. They need to identify him first, and then have backup on hand. If, indeed, he is watching the house at any particular time of day the way they are assuming. There are too many unknowns here.

 

“Well, at least we already have the bait,” Miss Fisher says wryly, derailing his train of thought completely.

 

“Oh no,” Jack says. “No.” Because using Miss Fisher as bait for a crazy person completely obsessed with her just isn't going to end well.

 

“Jack, it's the best way to lure-” she starts, her voice confident and eminently reasonable.

 

“No.” And he won't let himself be talked around on this one.

 

“Otherwise we'll never know if we have the right-” Less reasonable now, and more exasperated.

 

“No.”

 

“Hmph! Fine, don't listen to me.” Miss Fisher glares at him. “I shall ignore all of your suggestions too then. I'll even do it in advance. No, I'm not leaving. I'm not staying with family, I'm not going on holiday; I'm certainly not going into police custody!” Her voice has been rising steadily, and her eyes flash with anger. “I won't have a policeman follow me when I go out, no matter how subtle he thinks he's being. I won't have one sitting on the back door step either. I won't have people intercepting my mail.” Why does she have to be so inflexible about this? As though her safety isn't a consideration at all. And her list of things she won't do – pretty much every advisable course of action - just goes on, and on. “I won't-”

 

“This is a police investigation now, Miss Fisher,” Jack says tersely, finally snapping, “and you will do as deem necessary for your safety!”

 

It's an enormous mistake, he knows it as soon as the words leave his mouth. She goes very still, and Jack takes a moment to think that he's said the one thing that will guarantee her rebellion.

 

Jack sighs. “I'm sorry,” he says. 

 

She walks quietly back to the sofa and sits down, studiously avoiding his eyes. “I'm quite sure you're right, Jack.” Oh God, she's pretending to be compliant. Which means she's coming up with something ill-advised to do behind his back.

 

“I'm just worried about you.” He leans down to pick up one of the letters from the table again. “I've seen letters like these before, Miss Fisher.” Once had come to nothing. Another time he had been given them by the distraught family of a kidnapped young woman whom they never found.

 

She nods, hair falling forward to cover her face. It makes her look very young. “I know.”

 

“I'll need to take the letters with me. See if I can trace them through the post office.” Jack walks over to stand beside her. He'd like to put his hand on her shoulder; to touch her as casually as she's always touching him. His fingers twitch, and he almost does, then stuffs his hand in his pocket instead.

 

“Of course,” she says dispassionately. He looks down at her bowed head for a moment, wishing he could travel back in time a few minutes to when she was arguing with him again. It had been far more honest.

 

He carefully gathers the letters up from the table, placing the last one back into it's envelope from where he had let it fall after he finished reading it. Jack does not want to read them again, though he knows he will have to, back at the station. He tucks them into his jacket pocket. She's still not looking at him. He clears his throat, ill at ease.

 

“And if I could have a copy of the list you've made, of the people you've seen?” he asks.

 

“Whatever you need, Inspector.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Back at the station, Jack sits down at his desk and carefully numbers the envelopes and letters according to the order of arrival. He thinks he has the contents burned onto his brain. He removes all of the letters except the first, which, similar to her assessment of Mr Butler, he thinks Collins can handle, and puts them into his top desk drawer.

 

Outside, he hands the envelopes and the first letter to Collins, and, after a brief explanation, asks him to see what he can find out about where they were posted. Tracking them may prove to be an impossible job, but it's the best lead they've got at the moment. After all, if their suspect list is anyone who finds Miss Fisher attractive but thinks it's unfortunate she sleeps with other men, they're looking at almost the entire male half of the population; possibly some of the female half too. At least if they actually find a suspect, they can compare his handwriting to that in the letters.

 

In the meantime, Jack arranges for a constable in plain clothes to be present on Miss Fisher's street the following morning for the hour before and after her post arrives, which she said is approximately at seven. It won't hurt to have an extra person taking down descriptions, and, with the different angle, he might see someone that Miss Fisher has missed. Maybe they'll get lucky.

 

Half an hour later, almost at the end of his shift, Collins knocks on the door. Jack looks up, and beckons him in.

 

“Nothing particular about the stamp I'm afraid, sir, it's a standard halfpenny that you could get anywhere. Based on the order that you've written on them, working back from this morning, each letter was posted the day before. They've all been franked as Vic-Aust,” Collins places the envelopes down on the table, and points at the corner, “so they're being sent locally.” Jack nods. He'd suspected as much from the tone of the letters – this wasn't someone on the other side of the country. “I've been on the telephone with the post office on Elizabeth and Bourke, they've said I can bring the letters by tomorrow morning but they aren't sure they'll be able to help.”

 

Which wasn't much progress, but it was all they could do today.

 

“Good work, Collins,” Jack says wearily. “We'll pick it up again tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” Collins hesitates in the doorway. “Is Miss Fisher alright, sir?”

 

“Yes, Collins, she's fine.” Jack hopes that's true.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At seven o' clock Jack leaves the station, buys something almost edible from a pie-cart, a bunch of daffodils from the flower girl next to it, and drives to the end of Miss Fisher's road. He sits in his car, watching the street. At least it's a warm night. Motor cars drive up and down the road occasionally, but it's generally quiet. There are street lights, though they are a little irregular. It's a nice neighbourhood – unsurprising since Miss Fisher chose to live there.

 

It's disturbing to think that, somewhere out there, someone else may be sat watching the same street, and the same house, with much less honourable motives.

 

A taxi pulls up in front of Miss Fisher's house, and someone gets out and heads inside. He can't be sure from this distance, but he thinks it's Miss Fisher. It looks like the sort of coat she would wear, and one of her hats.

 

It's gone half past nine. Jack gets out, leaving his hat in the car so as to look less official, checks he's got his pistol, and strolls casually down the road. He feels odd, carrying the flowers. He hasn't given flowers to a woman in longer than he can remember. Rosie stopped welcoming them many years ago. It seems strangely apt to be bringing them to Miss Fisher, who won't take them as a romantic gesture at all.

 

Jack knocks, and, after a minute, knocks again. He should have thought to check if she had plans for the evening.

 

“Inspector?” It is Miss Williams who opens the door, obviously surprised to see him. She looks down at the flowers, and then back up at him. He can't help but wonder what she is thinking.

 

“Miss Williams. I wonder if I might speak with Miss Fisher?”

 

“Of course. Please, come in! She's just back from dinner.” She motions towards his coat, and he removes it and hangs it on a peg. Casually blocking her view of it, he carefully adjusts the gun in the coat pocket so that it isn't visible; he doesn't want Miss Fisher seeing it. “I'll let her know that you're here.”

 

As Miss Williams heads upstairs, Mr Butler comes into the hall.

 

“Ah, Inspector,” he says. “I thought I heard your voice. Is Miss Fisher expecting you?” Jack nods a greeting at him. He's rather hoping that Mr Butler will prove to be an ally in this whole affair.

 

“Actually, no. In fact, Mr Butler, I was wondering if you could help me with something.” He explains his plan for the evening quickly and concisely, and Mr Butler nods. Just as Jack finishes, Miss Fisher trips her way lightly down the stairs. She is wearing a stunning dark red dress, with a very interesting slit up one leg concealed mostly by overlapping fabric, but has already taken her make-up off. He finds the combination appealing.

 

“Good evening, Jack,” she says, and before she can continue he presents her with the flowers with a flourish. She blinks; he thinks that for once he has truly surprised her. Hesitantly, she smiles. “How lovely! Mr Butler, would you-” But Mr Butler has already left to get a vase. She comes forward the rest of the way, and takes the daffodils from him. They suddenly feel a rather poor offering, though the yellow looks lovely against her hair as she holds them up to her face. “May I ask what the occasion is?”

 

“I thought it would make a good disguise, just in case anyone was watching.” Luckily, he thinks Miss Fisher must be the only woman on the planet who wouldn't mind being brought flowers just to throw off suspicion. He remembers something she said earlier. “I'm trying to prove to you that policemen can be subtle, after all.”

 

Her smile widens, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I've never doubted your undercover abilities, Jack,” she says with a mischievous look. He tries not to think about the double meaning in that.

 

Mr Butler returns, and Miss Fisher places the flowers in the provided vase. She moves into the parlour to place them upon one of the end tables, and Jack wavers in the hallway, uncertain of whether or not he is supposed to follow her.

 

“May I offer you both a drink?” asks Mr Butler diplomatically from beside Jack. Miss Fisher looks back at them, apparently bemused to find them so far away. He was supposed to follow her in, then. Jack's never been brilliant with social situations. Especially with beautiful women. Though admittedly, so much exposure to Miss Fisher is forcing him to become adept with faking it.

 

“Stay for a nightcap, Jack?” She looks at him inquiringly. “Or were you just checking up on me?”

 

“I – Yes actually, just the one,” he says, and moves to join her. He already plans to stay for a lot longer than that implies, but, since she will inevitably try and coax him into staying for another, this way it can be her idea.

 

“Any progress to report?” she asks, still fussing over the flowers. How women can find any difference in the way that flowers look when they are arranged one way or another is beyond him.

 

“Nothing of note. There doesn't seem to be anything unusual about the letters or envelopes that we could use to identify where they are coming from. Collins will follow it up at the post office in the morning though.” Jack is sorry not to be able to report anything more positive. It would have soothed the primitive part of his brain to be able to say, 'look, I have come to help you and I have fixed everything.' Admittedly, the primitive parts of his brain are better left at home when it comes to dealing with Miss Fisher.

 

Mr Butler brings through a decanter and two glasses, and Jack turns to take them as Miss Fisher murmurs her thanks. She pours them both a glass, and they pause for a moment to savour the whisky. Miss Fisher sits down with a sigh.

 

“I really needed this,” she says. The drink? The company? Jack considers her; she's been living with the weight of these letters hanging over her for days, feeling unable to talk to anyone about it. Leaving aside his injured feelings that she didn't feel she could come to him over this, it must have been very difficult.

 

“I don't have anywhere to be,” he says, meaning it wholeheartedly. If she needs to talk, he is more than willing to listen. She looks up at him, eyes searching his face for a moment, and nods.

 

“Thank you, Jack.”

 

He sits in one of the armchairs. He's not entirely sure it was chosen for it's comfort. Still, he thinks as he rests his elbows on the chair arms and takes a sip of whiskey, he could get used to this.

 

“Anything on your end?” he asks.

 

She hasn't got as far as the post office yet either, although that will probably be her next step – charming her way in through cajoling, bribery and flirting, Jack imagines. She'll probably have more luck than Collins. She has, however, managed to interrogate the postman, which she hadn't had the chance to tell Jack about earlier. He confirmed that he picked up the mail from the main postal office every morning, and that it never left his sight after that. He couldn't tell her much about the inner workings of the post offices in Victoria, but he didn't think she'd have a great deal of luck tracing a letter back to it's sender. She's been busy the rest of the day with an engagement that afternoon and evening, so no chance to inquire further.

 

“So no,” she concludes glumly, “nothing on my end.”

 

Jack pours her another drink, and makes a show of topping up his own even though he's barely drunk any. His goal for the evening is to stay sober, and to get her at least tipsy.

 

“Well, tomorrow is a new day, Miss Fisher. No doubt you'll have him at gun point by sunset.” Knowing Miss Fisher, this is of course entirely possible. Jack fantasizes about her pulling the trigger on the miserable bastard.

 

“I don't always use my pistol to solve problems, Jack!” He almost chokes on his whiskey at the innocence she manages to inject into her voice.

 

“No,” Jack says, “sometimes you use the nearest blunt object instead.” Her lips curve into a slight smile, which he counts as a success under the circumstances. “Mind you, sometimes I wish some of the constables at the station were as good as you at improvising under pressure.”

 

“Was that a compliment, Jack?” It was. Being quick at thinking on your feet was one of the most important qualities you could have in their profession. For all that Miss Fisher seemed determined to do everything the most reckless way possible, at least he knew she'd be very good at thinking her way out of the ensuing trouble she got into.

 

“Why, the other day-” he starts, and tells her anecdotes about the station, and some of the minor (non-lethal) cases they've had recently. If anything he under-reports the incompetency of some of his co-workers, because the reputation of his station is important to him. And Miss Fisher already has a low enough opinion of law enforcement. She seems genuinely interested, which again brings up painful comparisons with Rosie. He refills her glass again, and again, and her laughter gradually becomes more free.

 

Eventually, however, she yawns, and stretches a little. Taking that as a signal, he stops what he is saying and puts down the glass he has been nursing.

 

“My apologies, Miss Fisher, I have been talking far too long.”

 

“Not at all, Jack, I've had a lovely evening.” Sleepy and relaxed is a good look on her. He stands, and holds out a hand to help her up. On her feet she yawns again, covering her mouth and looking a little embarrassed.

 

“I'm sorry, Jack, I haven't been getting much sleep lately.” She leans into him for a moment, and he can't help but smell her perfume. Having her so close is intoxicating.

 

“Then I hope you sleep well tonight,” he says, and if his voice is a little deeper than usual he's fairly sure she doesn't notice.

 

He guides her in the direction of the hall with his hand on the small of her back, and, just as they reach it, Mr Butler appears. “Ah, Mr B!” Miss Fisher says, and hugs him. “The most excellent Mr B!” Jack shares a look with Mr Butler. Apparently she was more affected by the whiskey than he'd thought. He can't help but be amused by her behaviour; he hasn't seen her act like this since her birthday party.

 

“Why don't you head upstairs, miss, and I'll see the Inspector out.” Mr Butler acts as though there's nothing unusual in his employer being so affectionate.

 

“Alright,” she says cheerfully. Turning to Jack, she smiles and says, “Thank you for the company tonight.” She looks incredibly beautiful, relaxed and happy. For a moment he forgets that he is here because there is someone out there who wants to hurt her.

 

“You are more than welcome, Miss Fisher.” If he's being honest, conversation with Miss Fisher feels like it fills a void nothing else can these days. He rather feels as though, rather stealthily and possibly with the use of a lockpick, she's become his best friend.

 

“Good night, Jack.”

 

Jack picks up his hat as she starts up the stairs, and reaches for his coat. As soon as she disappears out of view, he puts them down again. He opens, and then closes, the door.

 

“Thank you, Mr Butler,” he says in a hushed voice. Earlier he had told the butler of his plan to have drinks with Miss Fisher and then stay the night in case anyone should attempt to break in – but that Jack rather thought she might object if she knew. This was, perhaps, one of those cases when it was easier to ask forgiveness.

 

“Not at all, Inspector. I will be relieved to have you here. I have been... concerned for Miss Fisher,” says Mr Butler. Jack nods. He can understand that. And Mr Butler has always seemed rather fond of her – it is very hard not to be, Jack finds.

 

“Is it alright if I set up in the parlour for the night?” Jack asks.

 

“Yes, that's fine. I'm just going to finish up down here before bed - let me get you a cup of tea.”

 

Jack goes back into the parlour and sits down, making an effort to be quiet. It's not just the one he was sitting in earlier; none of the chairs are particularly comfortable. And the chaise longue is a bit narrow for him to lie down on comfortably. Though he's endured plenty of stakeouts in much worse places, so he has no call to complain now.

 

The noises of Mr Butler checking everything for the night go on for some time. Everything else is quiet; Miss Fisher must already be in bed. Jack was a little worried she would come back down again, and he would have to duck behind a piece of furniture. Through the door, he sees lights in some of the other rooms go off. It's almost midnight.

 

Finally the butler returns, carrying a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches. Jack eyes them with great interest. “I thought you might be hungry,” Mr Butler says, and then returns a moment later with a thick blanket. “And it will get cold in here now that the fire's died down.”

 

“Thank you, Mr Butler, that's very kind.”

 

Mr Butler pauses in the doorway on his way out. “You should bring her flowers more often. She liked them.” He leaves before Jack can formulate a reply. Which is just as well, since he has no idea what he would have said.

 

Jack turns off the main lights, leaving only the small lamp on a side table. It's plenty of light for him to eat by, and he feasts on the sandwiches. It seems like a long time since that pie, and he's very grateful for Mr Butler's forethought. He drinks two cups of tea slowly, savouring the warm liquid, then pulls out his revolver and switches off the lamp. He's sure that no one could come in the front door without him seeing them go past the parlour, and hopes he'll hear them if they come in the back.

 

Time passes very slowly. Jack occasionally gets up and carefully moves the curtains aside to look out of the window. He doesn't see anybody. There are no lights on in any of the neighbouring houses. He wraps the blanket around himself and tries not to fall asleep. At some point during the night, he fails.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack is woken by a noise in the morning only seconds before Miss Fisher discovers him. He stares at her, his eyes bleary with sleep, as a variety of expressions flicker across her face. Surprise, indignation, amusement, fondness. This is not good, he thinks to himself.

 

“Why, Jack,” she drawls. “I thought I saw your coat still by the door.”

 

“Miss Fisher,” he says, and runs a hand through his hair. He must look quite a sight. His original plan had not included getting caught. “What time is it?” He squints as she opens the curtains.

 

“Six o' clock, Jack. Why, some of us have been up for ages!” She's still wearing a robe and no make-up, so he's willing to doubt the veracity of that statement. She comes to stand back in front of him, and her robe has gaped open slightly in a way which reveals she's not wearing much more than a slip underneath. Jack gives a hoarse cough, and tries not to think about it.

 

“I didn't mean to fall asleep,” he says, and tries to stand up only to discover he is hopelessly entangled in the blanket. She laughs at him, and grabs it, pulling until it unravels. The movement loosens her robe still further. Once he is free, Jack looks determinedly at her eyes.

 

“I have a perfectly good guest bedroom, you know,” she says mischievously. “If you were so intoxicated you couldn't drive.”

 

“Well, uh, that is-” Jack's brain stutters in much the same fashion as his mouth is, and can't quite seem to get started. He swears he can see one of her _nipples_ outlined against -

 

“Relax, Jack. Really, if you wanted to sit on the doormat with a gun, all you had to do was say so.” Actually he thinks that was one of the suggestions she turned down. “And what happened to being subtle? You can't lie to save your life!”

 

He is spared the indignity of replying when Mr Butler comes in. Miss Fisher's hand immediately comes up to clasp the front of her robe together, and Jack belatedly realises that she was _doing it on purpose_. Interesting.

 

“Ah, you're both awake. An early breakfast, miss?”

 

“That sounds just the thing, Mr B. And perhaps Jack would like a chance to freshen up?” Jack nods. That sounds perfect.

 

Mr Butler directs him towards one of the upstairs rooms, and provides him with fresh towels and a razor to carry out his morning ablutions. Jack does so quickly, not taking his usual time over it. He wonders whose razor he's using. Mr Butler's? Or does Miss Fisher keep one for any gentlemen staying the night? The thought is less than appealing, and he frowns as he wipes his face clean.

 

Back downstairs, and feeling marginally less like he has just slept by the roadside all night, Jack joins them in the kitchen. The kettle is whistling, and there is the smell of breakfast cooking in the air.

 

Miss Fisher gives him a mischievous smile over a cup of tea. “I like your hair this way, Jack.” Of course, he doesn't have his pomade this morning, so his hair is curling down over his forehead in an unruly fashion. He reaches up to tug at it distractedly.

 

“Thank you, Miss Fisher,” he says. He likes to think it comes out nonchalantly, although he suspects she's laughing at him anyway.

 

Tea and a scone, with the promise of bacon on the way, improve his outlook on life immeasurably. Miss Williams comes in to join them, still only half awake herself.

 

“You're up early, miss,” she says. She nods at him. “Inspector.” She fixes herself a cup of tea, sits down, and then does the most comedic double take Jack has ever seen. “Inspector! Are you – Did you...?” She looks between himself and Miss Fisher, and he feels heat rise in his cheeks as he realises what she is implying. “I didn't know you were here,” she finishes weakly.

 

“The Inspector very kindly guarded our front door last night, Dot,” Miss Fisher says, sparing his blushes. She gives him a look which heavily implies she might tease him about this later though.

 

“Oh.” Miss Williams seems to digest this. “Guarded? Are we in danger?” Miss Fisher gives Jack a warning look before he replies.

 

“It's unlikely, Miss Williams. People who write such letters are, by nature, more likely to keep their distance.” He wishes he believed that in this case. “I'm sure it's just someone who bears a grudge against Miss Fisher for her excellent detective work. In fact,” he says, producing his notepad, “I was going to have you make a list.” Whether or not he actually thinks that, now that he knows the nature of the letters, it is still an avenue to investigate. And it will probably reassure Miss Williams.

 

“One step ahead of you, Jack,” Miss Fisher says. “I've left it upstairs.” She drains the last of her cup of tea and gets up from the table. The kitchen subsides into a drowsy quiet, broken only by the sizzle of bacon.

 

A few minutes after Miss Fisher has gone upstairs, they hear the sound of the letter box being pushed open, and letters hitting the mat. Jack looks at the clock. It is ten minutes past seven. The constable should have been out on the street for over an hour already. Mr Butler gets up.

 

“No,” says Jack. “I'll go.”

 

He dares to hope for a minute, before he picks up the pile of mail and sorts through it, that there will be no letter today. Perhaps the writer has got bored. Or died, suddenly, from a heart attack. But no, alongside a few stiff envelopes which likely contain invitations, and a thicker letter marked from England, there it is. Jack recognises the handwriting.

 

“Jack,?” says Miss Fisher as she comes down the stairs. She's holding a piece of paper in her hand, but it slips from her fingers at the expression on his face.

 

“Another one.”

 

She stops on the bottom step, and waits. Though everything in him rebels and cries out against it, he reluctantly hands the letter over.

 

“Thank you, Jack,” she says gravely. She examines the address, and nods. After looking for a moment in the direction of the kitchen, she turns into the drawing room instead. He retrieves the list she has dropped, and follows. He waits as she stops by a chair and carefully opens the envelope. With great force of will he resists saying anything else, or trying to read over her shoulder, and takes a seat next to her instead.

 

She reaches blindly behind her for the chair and sits as she reads. She's gone quite pale. He waits another minute, then, “Miss Fisher?” She must have read it five times by now.

 

“Jack,” she says, and she sounds heartbreakingly subdued. He wishes he could reach out and comfort her in some way, but he does not know if such a gesture would be welcomed. She lets the letter fall to her lap, and regards the far side of the room with great intensity. “I find myself glad that you decided to offer your services after all.”

 

His hands itch to take the letter; his body hums with restless energy. He needs to _do_ something. Eventually she looks back at him, and her lips twitch at his restraint. “Here,” she says, and passes it to him.

 

It's worse, much worse. Not longer, but the vitriol contained within has intensified. The letter is now about what the writer wants to do _to_ Miss Fisher. What he says he plans to. Jack breathes in and out again very deeply, and makes a thousand bloody promises against the bastard who wrote this. He will never, _ever_ , let this man anywhere near Miss Fisher if he can help it.

 

Jack places the letter on the coffee table. They both regard it for a moment.

 

“This is definitely an escalation, compared to the last few, Miss Fisher,” he says. For this man to be sending a letter to her every day is a sign of a very dangerous obsession.

 

“I know, Jack.” Her voice is still muted, not the bubbly tone she greeted him with first thing this morning. He regrets accusing her of taking this lightly, of it taking until now for him to see how hard she is taking this underneath her cheerful façade.

 

“You still won't leave?” he asks, already knowing the answer. She shakes her head. “Then, may I formally request use of your guest bedroom for the night?”

 

“I don't know if that would be quite proper, Jack.” She smiles half-heartedly. “What would Aunt Prudence think?”

 

“I would have thought you would rush to do something your aunt disapproves of.” This doesn't elicit the laugh he was hoping for. Jack picks up the letter and turns it over in his hands. “Miss Fisher, I -”

 

“Of course you can stay, Jack,” she says, as if it was never in doubt. “Come round for dinner.” Which is certainly a better option than food from a street cart and sitting in his car watching her house again. And this way, if anything happens, he'll be in the house, where he can do a lot more good than down the street.

 

“Thank you, Miss Fisher, that would be lovely.” Jack stands. “Now, I really must be going.” He needs to change before work, and to pick up some things from his house for this evening. Miss Fisher nods, and then reaches out to tap the corner of the letter.

 

“I'd like to keep this one, Jack. For my investigation.” It doesn't seem to be any different from the others – Jack retrieves the envelope again and finds it the same. He passes it to her, and his fingers brush hers. They feel cold.

 

“Just for today, Miss Fisher.” Jack hopes she doesn't read it again. He's not sure he can stand the thought of her scanning over such hideous words again and again, knowing that person is out there and watching her. “And, Miss Fisher? Please, be careful.”

 

“I always am,” she says, and shows him out. The sound of the door shutting behind him is somehow ominous.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack drives to his house first, and manages to get to the station by half past eight. He intercepts Collins as soon as he arrives.

 

“After you've been to the post office I want you to start investigating all of the neighbours. Particularly anyone who's moved into the area recently. Likely to be a male between the age of twenty-five and forty. I suspect we're looking for someone single – and he almost definitely won't have children. If you find someone worth interviewing, we'll do it under the cover of something else – burglaries in the area maybe.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Collins says, scribbling notes down industriously. “Is Perkins back yet, sir? Did he see anything?”

 

“No, no, he's not back yet.” Jack nods in dismissal, and his constable heads out. Jack stares out of the door after him for some time before he pulls himself together.

 

Constable Perkins arrives twenty minutes later and gives his report. Several of the people he's seen this morning correspond with Miss Fisher's observations from the last few days, but they aren't likely candidates. The newspaper boy coming back from his round; men and women walking past clearly dressed for work. No one really lingering.

 

“There was one bloke,” the constable says. “Stopped for a cigarette on the terrace one house over. Wouldn't have said he was watching Miss Fisher's house, though.”

 

Jack asks him to read out the description again. Late twenties or early thirties, probably working class but well dressed for it, average height, dark hair, carrying some kind of bag. He's not on any of Miss Fisher's lists, but then if he was directly under and to the right of her she might not have had the angle to see him from upstairs.

 

“Did you see where he went?” Jack asks. This is the first potential lead they have, but if they've got no way of finding him again they'll have to try and nab him the following morning.

 

“He carried on after a bit, and knocked two doors down.”

 

“What house was that?” Jack notes down the information. “Good work, Perkins. I'll go and-” The telephone rings, and, after a moment in which Jack seriously considers ignoring it, he answers.

 

“Yes, Inspector Jack Robinson speaking. Good morning, Commissioner. Yes, Commissioner. Yes, it's on my desk. I've been investigating another case, sir, of threats being sent to-” Jack stops, as the voice over the telephone becomes louder and more insistent. “Yes, of course, Commissioner, I will see to it personally.” Jack puts the receiver down, possibly in a more aggrieved fashion than the telephone deserves.

 

“Unfortunately, Perkins, I am urgently needed to go and investigate the theft of the commissioner's niece's tennis partner's husband's wristwatch.” Perkins' eyes glaze over slightly. Jack isn't actually sure he's got it correct either. “Yes, quite,” Jack says. “So I need you to visit that house, quietly mind, and tell them there have been a series of robberies in the area and you're checking that everything is secure. Ask them if they've seen anything suspicious, and mention that one of the other neighbours saw the man you described loitering outside. Find out who he is and report back.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Perkins is a good lad, though likely not subtle enough for Miss Fisher. Still, he won't have to lie about who he is, so Jack thinks he'll do alright.

 

The rest of Jack's morning feels interminable, interviewing stupid, shallow people whom he is fed up with in less than five minutes. They are all so concerned about appearances that none of them will be honest with him at all. He wants to shake them – they are the ones who demanded his presence in the first place! What's the point, if now that he is there none of them will talk to him? He's stuck here with them while Miss Fisher is off doing who-knows-what.

 

The wife accuses the maid. The husband says the maid wouldn't have done it, but then he's obviously sleeping with her. The maid is so shy in Jack's presence that he doubts he'll get anything out of her, but finally whispers that she saw the victim's brother coming out of his rooms the day before. The brother is outraged at the suggestion, and won't shut up about how incompetent the police are. He, Jack strongly suspects, is having an affair with the wife.

 

Eventually Jack, pushed beyond all endurance, corners the manservant, who's been standing to one side looking shifty. More of a boy, really. Yes, he took the watch. Yes, he still has it. Yes, he'll come down to the station quietly. It isn't until that point that Jack realises he is gripping the boy's arm rather tightly. The watch is returned, and they drive to the station.

 

It's already well into the afternoon, and Jack hasn't had a chance for lunch yet. He's absolutely starving – he never did get that bacon. He eats a sandwich at his desk, and asks Collins for an update.

 

“Not a lot from the post office, I'm afraid, sir.” Collins sets the envelopes on Jack's desk and then sits down. “They've kept one – they say possibly they can try and compare machines to see where it was franked. But that will take days, sir, and they don't know if there will be enough differences in the marks to tell.”

 

Jack closes his eyes. Days. Anything could happen in days. He thinks about how much worse the letters could get. “Anything else, Collins?”

 

“None of the neighbours have been there less than a year. I looked into everyone on the street for ten houses down anyway; almost all married couples sir, and mainly with children. Several elderly ladies. There is one household, sir, the Rileys, who have a brother staying with them. He's the only one that would meet your description.”

 

“Yes?” Jack perks up.

 

“Apparently he's a doctor, but he's currently out of work.”

 

“That's very interesting, Collins, well done. If we leave now...” Jack stops to think. If this person is watching Miss Fisher's place from another house then they might have seen him last night. They would see him again tonight. If he then also shows up knocking on doors as a policeman, even for something unrelated, he might spook the culprit. “Blast. I can't go, I'll blow my cover.”

 

“Your cover as what, sir?” It was a good question. His cover as someone who brought Miss Fisher flowers and then stayed the night.

 

“You'll have to do it. Go with the robbery story, say you're checking everyone's valuables are safe. See what you can find out about the brother. Find out how well they know their neighbours; keep it casual if you mention Miss Fisher.” Hopefully if it was this man he would spontaneously confess the moment he saw a police officer. Or at least seem dodgy enough that they would have grounds to bring him in and question him.

 

“Got it, sir. Oh, there was one other thing. The post office said they were obviously doing a good job, if the letters were always reaching Miss Fisher the day after posting even with the cheapest stamps. I just thought that was funny, sir.”

 

“Yes,” Jack says, considering. If he sent his parents a letter it usually took a couple of days to get there, and they lived in Victoria too. “Perhaps it is.”

 

“Do you want me to send Perkins in on my way out, sir?” Collins asks, getting up.

 

“Yes, thank you.” Now, how would someone get a letter -

 

Perkins thuds his way into the office, and Jack's train of thought is disrupted.

 

“Sir. I asked about that fellow, all nice and casual,” Jack slightly fears what Perkins' idea of casual might be, “and his name is Charles Webster. The gentleman of the household told me - when I implied that he might be an unsavoury character - that he brought them news of anything interesting coming in at the docks each day. The gentleman is in trade, apparently. I couldn't quite work out how legal his trade, or the items coming into the docks, might be.”

 

“So, this Webster?”

 

If the only time the man was in Miss Fisher's neighbourhood was first thing in the morning, he was unlikely to have come across her much. This morning notwithstanding, Miss Fisher was not usually an early bird unless there was murder involved. On the other hand, it would just take a strong first impression for him to seek her out on his own at other times, and she was very, very good at those.

 

“Right, well I tracked him down, which was difficult with nothing but a name to go on, especially since it turned out not to be his real name. By day he's a clerk at the harbourmaster’s office, though it looks like he's paid off the books. Charles Wheeler.”

 

“And?”

 

“Well,” Perkins scratches his head. “I don't think he's the bloke you're looking for.” Jack narrows his eyes. He hasn't actually told Perkins, or anyone else, why they're looking for this man, and it's not like Collins to gossip. He eyes Perkins dubiously. “Word gets around, sir. And we all like Miss Fisher.” Yes, because she bribes them with food. Jack sighs. He supposes anyone in the station could have heard Miss Williams and Collins talking the first day, before he brought her into Jack's office.

 

“Why don't you think he's our man?”

 

“Well sir, I happened to nip into the office when he stepped out, and the harbourmaster showed me around right quick. And I also just happened to pick this up from Mr Wheeler's desk,” Perkins presents a sheet of scribblings, “As an example of the fine work done in the office.”

 

“Give that here,” Jack takes it eagerly. He immediately sees what the constable meant, however, the chicken scratchings are barely legible. Nothing like the clear hand of the letters. “Hell!” He drops it on the table, and pauses to regroup. “Well, at least we've ruled him out. And good job, Perkins.”

 

Once Perkins has left the office, Jack leans back in his chair and allows himself to feel tired for a minute. They are no further on today than they were yesterday, and who knows what tomorrow's letter will bring. Or what Miss Fisher's face will look like when she reads it. Jack's hand reaches for the telephone, and he rings Miss Fishers house without his brain ever being fully consulted.

 

Mr Butler picks up after a few rings. Jack can't help feeling thwarted that it isn't Miss Fisher's voice on the other end. He clears his throat.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr Butler. I just thought I would ring and check everything if is still alright for this evening?” Mr Butler confirms that it is, and that they look forward to seeing him around seven. He adds that Miss Fisher is not at home at the moment. Disappointment spreads through Jack's chest. “Ah, I was hoping to update her on the case,” he manages. “Thank you, Mr Butler.”

 

He's being ridiculous. Nothing will have happened to her during the day, with Miss Williams accompanying her. Because it's not like she ever takes any risks at all. Jack groans, and decides for the sake of his sanity he can't think about that. He eyes the other cases on his desk – a mugging and another burglary. He should at least look at them.

 

Time crawls as Jack reads his way through the file on the burglary, sure he's missing every other word. His progress, or lack thereof, is interrupted when Collins gets back just before five, and comes straight into his office. “Sir,” he says, still out of breath.

 

“Sit down, Collins. Anything to report?”

 

“Maybe, sir. The brother wasn't there, but I spoke to the owner and his wife. I asked to see all the rooms of the house, sir, as part of the burglary story, and I noticed that there's a perfect line of sight to Miss Fisher's house from the brother's bedroom.” That's promising. Collins pulls out his notepad. “His name is Edward Riley, and apparently he quit his previous practice a few months ago. Something about stress. And the wife mentioned that he was very quiet – she was saying that he would probably end up handing over anything a burglar wanted rather than fighting them.”

 

“Very good, Collins,” Jack says, impressed. He hadn't been holding out much hope, but this doctor sounds a perfect candidate for someone who would fixate on a beautiful woman next door but feel like he couldn't talk to her. Like he had to communicate some other way instead. “That could definitely be our man. And that's a lot of information.”

 

“Well,” Collins says shyly, “she was quite talkative, sir. She said I reminded her of her own brother.”

 

Jack glances at his watch. Five o' clock. “Well, if he's not there now then perhaps I shall have to call in the morning. And there's a mugging case I want you to take over.” He hands Collins the file. It's called delegating – and a mugging shouldn't have ended up on his desk in the first place.

 

Collins takes it and hovers anxiously for a moment. “Is it alright if I head out now, sir? I said I would call round and see Dottie.”

 

Jack smiles at him. The two of them are very sweet together. “Yes, of course, Collins,” he says, and waves the constable out. “Have a good evening.”

 

“We'll catch him sir, you'll see.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite having theoretically picked up everything he needed that morning, Jack goes home anyway to freshen up and change for dinner. He can't decide on a tie, and changes it twice. He's being ridiculous. On the other hand, if he's pretending to be one of Miss Fisher's suitors, it makes sense for him to dress more smartly. He changes his tie back to the first one again, and then leaves the house before he can rethink it. Although he does stuff the other tie into his coat pocket. Taking a slight detour on the way to Miss Fisher's, he stops to pick up some flowers; tulips this time. He can't quite bring himself to buy roses, though he looks at them for a long time.

 

Jack parks outside Miss Fisher's house, and sits in the car for a moment. He's strangely nervous; he's not sure why. Mr Butler greets him at the door with a nod, and takes his things. “They're through in the drawing room, sir. I believe Constable Collins has just left.”

 

Walking to the doorway, Jack pauses there for a moment to watch them. Miss Fisher and Miss Williams are chatting happily as he walks in, the latter bent over some needlework. The sound of Miss Fisher's laugh makes something relax inside him for the first time since he left her this morning. She glances up and smiles warmly at him; he can't help the contented smile that spreads across his own face in return.

 

“Jack!” she says, and gets up to greet him. He keeps one hand behind his back, and sees her eyeing it in curiosity and anticipation.

 

“Good evening, Miss Fisher, Miss Williams.” After waiting a moment longer and seeing an impatient spark come into her eyes, he brings the flowers out from behind his back. “For you, Miss Fisher.”

 

She laughs. “So, these are today's disguise, Jack? A very good one too.” She is looking at his dinner jacket, not the flowers, when she says the last, and he fights the urge to straighten it. He has found the best way to deal with her teasing is to ignore it. Or to tease her back, of course. “We were just talking about you,” Miss Fisher continues.

 

“You were?” Jack thinks of her laugh when he came in, of how she had smiled at him.

 

“Oh yes,” and with a sly smile and an arch of her eyebrow Miss Fisher says nothing further. Miss Williams looks up at her reprovingly, and Jack's lips twitch in amusement. He hands Miss Fisher the tulips, and she goes to find a vase. Returning a few moments later, she places the flowers on the table. For all that they brighten the room, Jack can't help but think she is probably used to fancier flowers and that these, like the daffodils, are a little out of place.

 

They make small talk for a few minutes, and then supper is served. Jack waits until the two ladies are seated, and then draws out his own chair. Mr Butler comes out to check everything is in place, and Miss Fisher asks him to join them.

 

“I couldn't possibly, miss,” he says, with good natured disapproval. It must be odd, Jack thinks, working for such an unconventional mistress. Her household seems to thrive under her, though.

 

“Nonsense,” says Miss Fisher. “If the inspector wasn't here it would be just the three of us and we would probably end up eating in the kitchen!”

 

Jack had thought it strange, though comfortable, that they had all eaten in the kitchen together that morning. It fits what he knows of her personality that she wouldn't stand on ceremony with people she knew so well. It is, in fact, an honour that she has revealed it to him so casually, as for a lady of her station to do such a thing could be called eccentric at best, and scandalous at worst.

 

“Nonetheless, miss,” Mr Butler replies. “The inspector _is_ here, and you are not eating in the kitchen.” He looks at her sternly. She subsides with a slight pout. Jack hides his smile behind his napkin.

 

Dinner is excellent; beautifully cooked beef with potatoes, carrots and peas. Jack savours every mouthful. Miss Fisher smiles at his appreciation, and turns to Mr Butler when he comes to top up their wine.

 

“You must be careful, Mr B, that Jack does not attempt to steal you away when he leaves. I think he is quite in love with your cooking.”

 

“It would not be stealing, Miss Fisher,” Jack says, deadpan. “I would merely offer him a calmer way of life, less break ins, less chance of being shot...” She looks offended for a moment, and then it turns to exasperation.

 

“Honestly, Jack, you're a policeman. I daresay your life is just as dangerous as mine.” He tilts his head in acknowledgement.

 

“I regret to say I am not currently seeking another post, sir” says Mr Butler, “as I consider myself quite fixed where I am.” Miss Fisher smiles blindingly at him, and then triumphantly at Jack, who laughingly concedes.

 

Dessert is similarly wonderful - apple crumble is his favourite. “I know,” Miss Fisher says simply, when he expresses his appreciation. “I remember you mentioning it.” A warm, happy feeling, which cannot be entirely accounted for by the food, settles in his stomach. Jack isn't quite sure how to respond, so looks down and clears his throat. He takes a bite, and another. When he looks up again, she smiles gently at him, and he thinks that it's possible no one has ever understood him so well.

 

After dinner he and Miss Fisher abandon the table and move to the parlour, and Miss Williams disappears to the kitchen. “And how was your day,” Jack asks, which he has so far resisted.

 

“My day?” she says innocently. “Oh, very uneventful, Jack.” And this is the belated punishment for yesterday, for stupidly saying that she should obey him. Now he will not get to hear if she went to the post office and charmed the post-master, or if she found any leads elsewhere.

 

“I'm sure it was,” he says wryly. “Would you like to hear about mine?” He's almost sure she would tell him if she'd found anything important – she wants this case solved just as much as he does, after all.

 

He updates her on the case as they have an after dinner drink; he's sure she's already heard some of it from Collins if he was here earlier, but that wouldn't have been the full picture.

 

“So you think it's really one of my neighbours,” she says, sounding a bit shocked. “This, Edward Riley?” She puts down her glass and moves to check the curtains are fully drawn. For a minute she stays there, facing away from him.

 

“He's our best lead at the moment.”Jack says. She rubs her upper arms as though she's cold, but it's warm in here with the fire. “He was out this afternoon, but I'll chase him up in the morning.” When she still says nothing, Jack draws a little nearer. “Are you alright, Miss Fisher?”

 

“What?” She turns, dropping her arms to her sides, and visibly shakes off her thoughts. “Yes. It's just such an odd idea, that someone you might see every day could write such things. That it could be one of your neighbours, and you would never know.” Jack doesn't mention that if they hadn't got the lead on the neighbour, the next step would have been to investigate her ex-lovers. It still might be, tomorrow.

 

“You are quite safe, Miss Fisher.” He means it as he says it, then realises how it must have sounded to her. It is a platitude, the sort of thing one might tell someone with a lot less wit than Miss Fisher, because they would never think to question it. She isn't safe, of course. And the reason he's here is because he cannot bear not adding whatever small protection he can provide.

 

She smiles slightly, as though she's read his mind. “With you here, Jack, I've no doubt of that.” Ah, and a platitude of her own in return, that's fair. Her tone is just as real as his though, and the look in her eyes thanks him for the effort rather than being annoyed.

 

“Me and your pistol, I would imagine, Miss Fisher,” he says, attempting to lighten the mood.

 

She grins, and indicates her bag. “You may be right about that.”

 

“About whatever you're up to,” he says, unable to leave this, and she goes quiet, which tells him that his instincts were right. She is concealing something. “And whatever you've found. You would tell me if you knew who it was, wouldn't you? And if there was any danger?”

 

“Of course,” she says distractedly, and her eyes are far away as she thinks. “At this point I have nothing more than a slight hunch. Which seems less likely now, with what you've told me about Mr Riley.” Jack reaches out, and lightly touches her arm. She focuses on him. “I'll tell you in the morning, Jack. I promise.” He has to be satisfied with that.

 

They both retire early for the night, and it is much more strange to be settling into a guest bedroom than it was to be perching on a chair in the dark downstairs the night before. Somehow, this feels as though it has potential. As he gets dressed for bed, Jack is half waiting for Miss Fisher to open the door, just to catch him in his pyjamas and give him a naughty grin. As he gets into bed, he half expects her to sneak in and join him under the covers. Neither happens. His imagination is quite taken with the second idea, and goes on to describe what might happen after she joined him under the covers. And also, in great detail, what she might be wearing. These are far more pleasant thoughts than the worrying he was expecting, and sleep comes quickly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sheets are luxurious, and he loves the feel of them as he stretches in the morning. It's almost seven, and Jack didn't hear a thing all night. He goes downstairs in the slippers and robe provided for him, feeling sinfully decadent, and finds Mr Butler in the kitchen.

 

“You're the first up today, sir. Would you like some tea?”

 

Jack makes various non-verbal noises in response to Mr Butler's enquiries, which he luckily doesn't seem to take offence to. Normally Jack is awake, alert and dressed at this hour, but since he's technically 'working' right now just by being here, he's not too worried about the slow start to his morning.

 

“Ah, and that will be Miss Fisher now,” says Mr Butler as they hear a noise on the landing. He must be able to tell her apart from Miss Williams somehow, since Jack imagines her companion would normally be the earlier riser. Although of course she's been maintaining her watch through the window at this hour for the last few days. Jack hears her tread on the stairs, and reaches to pour her a cup of tea.

 

A moment later he hears the sound of the front door opening, and several things snap into place in his mind.

 

“Phryne!” he yells, instantly awake and running for the hall, cup smashing to the ground behind him. His feet slip on the smooth floor, and he is so afraid of what he might find when he gets there. “Phryne!”

 

Because of course there _has_ been someone there every day when the letters were delivered, it just wasn't one of the people watching from the street. It was someone who could ensure that his letters got franked and put directly into the delivery bag for the next morning. And clever Miss Fisher had worked that out, and then _hadn't told him_. And now, in her desire to prove her theory, she's only gone and opened the bloody door to the man!

 

Jack bursts into the hallway, and his heart leaps into his throat. Letters are scattered across the floor; Miss Fisher's pistol lying atop them. She looks incredibly vulnerable in her robe, bare feet peeking out of the bottom, with the postman holding a knife to her throat.

 

“Phryne,” Jack whispers. He left his revolver in the kitchen. Or in the bedroom – he can't even remember.

 

“And you!” roars the postman, spittle flying from his lips. Miss Fisher flinches as the knife presses a little harder into her skin. Jack's hands ball into fists. He is reminded of René Dubois, and the way he held her like this too. “You tried to take her from me! I've seen you, these last two nights. But you can't have her, because she's mine!” The words call an answering echo from Jack's gut, and if he wasn't so afraid he'd be furious. She doesn't belong to anyone, and damn this man to hell for what he's put her through!

 

Jack sees Miss Fisher's eyes flicker downwards, and she moves her hand incredibly slowly towards the parting in her robe. Jack can't help but wonder where she is even concealing a weapon under that thing, even if he is grateful for it, and then he is trying desperately to distract the man so that he doesn't notice her movements.

 

“Yes, I see that now,” Jack says, lowering his hands to appear less threatening. It galls him to say the words, but he fears antagonising someone with a knife held to Miss Fisher. “I didn't know before.”

 

“How could you not know,” says the postman, sounding wretched, “I told her every day.” Jack is studiously avoiding looking at Miss Fisher's hand. Both to avoid giving the game away, and also because he suspects there is currently a truly stunning amount of her on show. Now would not be a good moment for him to become speechless, which he speculates might be a consequence of looking down.

 

A slight noise behind him makes him glance back over his shoulder for a second. Mr Butler is standing a few metres away, still near the door to the kitchen. The madman hasn't seen him yet. Jack slips one hand behind slowly his back and makes a little circling motion. He spares a thought to hope that Miss Williams will stay upstairs a little longer, and hasn't been disturbed by all of the noise.

 

“With your letters, is that right?” Jack asks.

 

“I told her before that, but she didn't listen.” Jack wonders how he told her. If he whispered it when he walked past. If he stroked his fingers over her mail, and somehow thought it made her his. How long has this man been watching her? “And then, yes, my letters. She was supposed to reply,” he tightens his grip on her, and she makes a small noise of pain, “but she never did!”

 

Jack is watching her closely, so he is ready the second she meets his eyes. He sees the flash of metal in her hands. Now he just needs to get that knife away from her throat so that she can act.

 

“I took all your letters,” Jack says loudly, aggressively. He sees the postman waver, and knows that he has thrown him off balance.

 

“What?” he says, sounding confused. His grip across her shifts and loosens, and Miss Fisher makes a face at Jack indicating she needs a bit more.

 

“I took them.” Jack says, and now he lets all of his rage and fury pour into his voice. “She never got them. Because of me.”

 

“No,” the man yells, “No!” And abruptly he pulls the knife away from Miss Fisher to point it at Jack.

 

It's all that she needs. In seconds Miss Fisher has shoved him backwards, out of the door, and is slashing her knife at him. The postman yells in rage, and raises his knife again, but at that moment Mr Butler, who has come around from the back, hits him over the head with a frying pan. He falls like a sack of potatoes.

 

“See, Miss Fisher,” says Jack from where he has joined her in the doorway. “Blunt object.”

 

“You can't blame me for that, Jack,” she says shakily. “I was definitely planning on using the pistol.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Police officers have come to collect the man – William Royce – and Mr Butler has cleared the mess in the front hallway. Miss Fisher, still in her robe, is perched on the sofa in the drawing room, pouring another cup of tea. Jack, next to her, is already on his third. Miss Williams is apparently of the opinion that tea cures all things, and keeps appearing from the kitchen in a state of nervous agitation to tell them both to have another cup. Perhaps it's working – this time he is able to hold the saucer steady, without his hand shaking.

 

“How's the neck,” Jack asks, eyeing Miss Fisher. He's noticed she keeps touching it. She reaches up and runs her fingers over it absently, a thoughtful expression on her face. The skin looks a little reddened, but she's not bleeding.

 

“Fine.” She picks up the cup of tea, and blows on it to cool it down, but doesn't drink any. “I'm fine, Jack, really.” He nods, but he doesn't really believe her. He certainly doesn't feel fine. His own reactions to her being in danger again have shocked him, made him feel vulnerable and raw. If someone so much as looked strangely in Miss Fisher's direction at the moment he thinks Jack would shoot them. His revolver sits on the table in front of him, and Miss Fisher hasn't said a word about it.

 

“Miss Fisher-” he begins, and he means to apologise for allowing her to be put in danger, to accuse her of not telling him what he needed to know to protect her, to say a myriad of things he can't name. She interrupts him, of course.

 

“I wanted to thank you, Jack,” she says, and takes his free hand where it rests on his knee. He carefully puts the cup of tea in his other hand down, lest his grip grow unsteady again. “For being here. Especially after I was so determined to resist your help.” He looks down at her hand clasped over his. It seems so small and delicate. He turns his hand and curls his own fingers around hers, and feels their strength as she squeezes his hand.

 

“You do make it difficult for me to help, sometimes,” he says quietly, and he can hear the defeat in his voice. She is so fiercely independent, and he would have her no other way. She will always try to rescue herself, always, rather than ask for help, and so far she has always been successful. But what about the next time, and the time after that? Can she not, at least, accept the offer of back up? He fears the day, fears it terribly, when he might be too late.

 

“I suppose... I find it hard to rely on someone other than myself.” He can hear the discomfort at her own honesty in her voice. It is absolutely true, and stunning that she has admitted it. Jack has long wondered what in her past has encouraged such an inclination – one can be independent without being quite so reckless after all – and as he learns more of her he has gradually started to understand. She shifts restlessly, and starts to pull her hand back, but he tightens his grip a little and she stays. He needs this contact for a moment longer. “After all, there was no murder involved this time,” she says flippantly, “so why should you care?”

 

“Of course I care, Miss Fisher,” he says roughly. Because, of all things, how can she doubt that? “Of course I care.” He holds her gaze fiercely, in an attempt to communicate the truth of his words, and sees a slow realisation in her eyes.

 

Perhaps next time, or the time after, she will trust him enough to come to him.

 

And they sit like that, connected in some intangible way, until Miss Williams comes in with a fresh pot of tea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this took a lot longer to write, and then rewrite ten times, than I thought it would!
> 
> All information about Australia and the 1920's postal service (which was sparse) was gained from the internet, and may not be entirely accurate!


End file.
